


But we flew too high

by TheSkySpiritsTalentShow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, but nothing that´s not canon xP, mention of blood i guess, sadstuck spn, slight destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSkySpiritsTalentShow/pseuds/TheSkySpiritsTalentShow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn´t want to see inside. He did not want to face the horrors lurking this damp attic room. His instincts told him to crawl and hide. <br/>But Dean, Dean, his only family, his headstrong older brother. He would open the door. He would expect Sam to do it was well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But we flew too high

 He knew something went wrong as soon as he stepped through the doorway. It was in the air, a heavy, silent force crushing him while he ran from door to door, yelling, calling, pleading with one syllable. 

 

He stopped, listening. Nothing was there, nothing to laugh maybe, to call back for him and reveal “good news, it worked!” Nothing to shout for help. Tears of frustration welled up. His fist clenched, his teeth gritted, one more door.

 

He was going to break it down. He will not stop searching until he finds

 

“Dean! Dean, you up there?”

 

No response.

 

Sam started climbing the staircase, the last path between him and the facts.

 

“Dean?”

 

The grip on his gun tightened. His hope loosened, slipping through his fingers like grains of golden sand.

 

They came here to cure him. To end the dark hold the mark, a blessing of Lucifer, had on his older brother.  Castiel had a plan, one with no guarantees, but it was all they had left. Dean´s humanity was slipping. A shot in the dark had still been the best chance they had.

 

He faced the splintered wooden barrier. When he touched the knob, he expected a biting cold from the unpolished bronze. Instead, he was greeted with dull warmth, neither comforting nor warning. Sam Winchester swallowed hard, his throat was scratchy.

 

He didn´t want to see inside. He did not want to face the horrors lurking this damp attic room. His instincts told him to crawl and hide. But Dean, Dean, his only family, his headstrong older brother. He would open the door. He would expect Sam to do it was well.

 

So Sam pushed, harder. The hinges creaked, a wail of rust and age that was never answered. And slowly, the dim room revealed itself to him. The dark brunette stepped in.

 

Then stopped. In the far corner, just before the opposite wall.

 

A figure.

 

Unmoving, sitting on the floor.

 

It had what looked to be some kind of jacket or blanket spread over its knees and around it.

 

“Dean?”

 

It didn´t come out more than a whisper. The figure bowed its head, but didn´t respond. It was all Sam needed. He came closer, steps quickening, a smile and words of euphoric relief on his lips. He came to a stop behind his brother.

 

His eyes took in shapes and details that bled without meaning, until it all became clearer, brighter and he could see, he could see what was there, the final piece fell into the picture.

 

And nothing was alright. His relief turned sour, ambrosia rotting to poison in his stomach. Dean was not holding an old blanket, there was no jacket draped over his knees.

 

They were wings. Burnt to ashes. And the owner, their friend, Dean´s piece of heaven on earth, was motionless, head cradled in the older Winchester´s lap.

 

A thin trail of blood ran out of the angel´s mouth, staining the worn jeans underneath.

His trench coat was scorched. Right in the center, splattered blood, the splotches originating from a dark stain, a blade wound.

 

“Dean?”

 

“I killed him.” Finally, a response. It was a shattered, sharp razor sound, teetering between heartbroken cries and nonchalant chuckles.

 

“I killed Cas, Sam. I killed him.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“No answer at first.”

Then Dean turned his head slowly.

 

He faced Sam.

 

His face was bruised.

 

His cheeks were wet.

 

His eyes were black.

 

“He tried to cure me. I resisted. We started fighting and-”

 

A horrible twitch of emotions flickered on his face. Dean grimaced, then smiled.

 

“I won. I stabbed him right through the heart.”

 

His grin widened, until he was laughing, shoulders shaking. It sounded eerily in the small room.

 

Then his fist tightened in Castiel´s dark curls and he let out a cry.

 

“I murdered the man I loved! I fucking loved him! Oh my God what have I done? Oh God, oh Cas, what have I done?!”

 

He doubled over, weeping, wailing in pure agony.

 

Sam dropped down to his knees. The gun clattered carelessly to the floor. He buried his face in Dean´s jacket, hugging him from behind as his brother raged and cried.

 

“Dean, Dean please. It´s okay, just stop. Everything´s going to be okay.”

 

Nothing will be okay. They were broken beyond repair. But he needed these lies. For whatever reason, the last sliver of hope, he needed to believe it wasn´t over.

 

Dean leaned his forehead onto the cold one of the man he had given his heart to, from the first moment in that barn, a majestic, gentle and fearsome warrior, who had been his guardian angel and called them his friends. His crystal orbs remained dull, his wings remained broken.

 

Sam sobbed quietly into the leather jacket filled with warmth and smells, holding his brother tightly.

 

If he lets go, they´ll fall apart.


End file.
